


Like Kilkenny Cats

by Goodie_Whemper



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, POV Second Person, Vomiting, again nothing out of the ordinary, alternatively: gavin gets puked on and probably deserved it, and its fantastic, and uno, don't panic the oc is legit just there to get an outsider perspective on the s h e n a n i g a n s, everyone is a piece of shit, nothing out of the ordinary for this au, pokemon happens, speaking of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodie_Whemper/pseuds/Goodie_Whemper
Summary: “You guys are holding me ransom, right?”
Boss man smiles at you, tapping his nose. “Ah, I'm afraid to be let in on the Big Kid Club plans, you have to be a member of the Big Kid Club. And I'm sorry to say that I'm fresh out of initiation robes.” He hands his whiskey glass to Brownman. “Take that with us, will you? I don’t want her to take up Creative Shiv Crafting the second we leave.” 
With that, he stands up and walks towards the door, patting your head affectionately before withdrawing it just as you try to bite him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I just wanted to write shitty GTA gangster boys from a third party perspective. And then suddenly I had a much longer idea.
> 
> This is probably gonna be a long one. I hope y'all like it.
> 
> Warnings are probably going to change as the story progresses.
> 
> Shoutout to my [brother slash editor](http://www.buckettkun.tumblr.com) whom I "would be lost without."
> 
> EDIT 13/11/2016 - changed the whole thing to 2nd person for better flow.

“Hello, love!”

The trunk door clicks and swings open at the same time as you give it one last ferocious kick, sending your feet flying over the side of the jeep and hitting the gravel. You try to aim another kick at your captor (which you have to be given credit for - your feet are tied and you're wearing heels) but only succeed in giving the air a good swipe as he easily sidesteps you. He then takes the opportunity to grab your flailing legs and hoists you over his shoulders, humming to himself.

You know better than to try to scream. Your mouth has been duct taped and your saliva hasn’t been loosening it all. This might have something to do with the fact that the ecstasy you took earlier is wearing off and you’re experiencing some severe dry mouth. Besides which, yelling for help won’t achieve anything. From what little you can see, he’s driven you to some kind of abandoned concrete bungalow in the middle of the desert, with not a light around for miles. You can’t even see a road. Good. Great. This lunatic is going to murder and rape you and hack you into little pieces and feed you to the mountain lions and _you’re not even high anymore._

This is what you get - you think bitterly - for approaching the guy first. You _never_ approach the guy first; but this dude had balled up to the bar and ordered himself two chilli tequilas and turned to stare and grin at you like he _expected_ you to go over and start talking to him. Such arrogance had to be addressed- this was _your_ club; _your_ haunt. Everyone knew this. What had he been thinking?

He was pretty though - for a douchebag who wore sunglasses indoors. He’d been wearing an expensive shirt and an expensive watch and he had an expensive smile and his sandy blonde hair had been immaculately dishevelled with no-doubt expensive mousse. His stubble had been trimmed to achieve this roguish devil sort of vibe which told you that he’d figured out what looked good on him a very long time ago.

You’d gotten to talking and he was charming and - more importantly - English! It was rare to find another Brit in Los Santos, so you chatted about the homeland for a little while and you’d been playing with your hair and he’d been smirking at you all aloof and you’d been caressing each other's arms and you had _both_ known where this was going.

Except that apparently _you_ hadn’t, because the next thing you knew was that you were _literally_ just about to make out in his jeep and suddenly he’d conked you on the back of the head and _Good night Los Santos!_

You feel your stomach twist violently, and moan. Twelve shots of straight vodka and cherry chasers had seemed like such a good idea at the club - in fact it had never before seemed like a bad idea. You twitch and convulse, before vomiting unceremoniously all over your abductor’s back. Good. Except now your hair has sick in it. Bad.

He jumps and makes a noise of horror, before ‘accidentally’ smacking your head off of the doorframe on the way into the bungalow. Actually, he probably isn’t trying to make it look accidental. He carries you across the threshold as though you weigh absolutely nothing - which is bullshit because you know for a fact that all of your jewellery is solid gold and probably weighs about as much as his entire forearm. Fucker.

He’s walking down some stairs now, and it is _cold_ in this building, despite it being about 50-60 degrees outside even in the dead of night - which leads you to believe that you’re going underground. Fluorescent lights illuminate your descent and cause you to blink dizzily. It doesn’t help that you have glitter all up in your fucking eye. You still feel ill.

As you get closer to the bottom, you can hear loud chatter and laughter from your right. There are more of them? Oh god, this is so sick, sick and wrong. You start shivering - partly from fear, partly from withdrawal - causing your abductor to pat your leg absently.

“There there dear.” he says cheerfully. “Everything’s going to be fine.” He swings open the door, and the jabbering stops suddenly, before erupting again.

“Vav, my boy!”

“Eugh, you smell like shit.”

Your captor - Vav, apparently - jostles you. “She threw up on me.”

A face peers around his side, and You come the closest you have to screaming the entire night. It’s a skull. A skull with a full head of dark, dirty blonde hair. It grins at you, and you realise that the skull is, in fact, just facepaint. A little relief floods through you before he speaks, in an unexpectedly deep voice.

“She’s going to throw up again if you don’t stop jogging her around.” he chides Vav, who snorts. “Put her down over there.”

Vav concedes, hoisting you back over his shoulder and dropping you abruptly onto a cold steel chair which your silk slip dress does _not a damn thing_ to shield you from. A guy with a curly mop of hair and a vicious-looking black eye begins securing you to the chair, not bothering to be gentle about it.

The skull man raises an eyebrow at Vav who’s sniffing his jacket and making a face. You dearly hope that had been expensive too. He gestures at the wall, causing another figure to step from the shadows. A woman. Wearing a hawaiian shirt and denim shorts? Skullman turns to her.

“Do me a favour Jack; get Vav a new shirt from the stash before he starts bitching.”

‘Jack’ nods silently, before making her way out of the door, dragging Vav in tow. You are now faced with three of them: Skullman, Curly Hair, and a third guy who might be Puerto-Rican, wearing glasses and a purple hoodie. He’s cleaning a sniper rifle. You tense. Fuck all of this.

Curly hair takes this opportunity to rip off your face tape, and _you_ take the opportunity to utilise the spit-globule you’ve been nursing for a while, launching it at at him. It catches him on the chin, and his smirk melts into a look of fury with the speed of an ice cube in hell.

“ _Bitch,_ ” He growls, raising a fist in the air before having his wrist caught by Skullman. You don't stop flinching, however. Curly hair gives you one last snarl and shrugs Skullface off; wiping his face and returning to his seat. That was probably a shitty idea. Fuck it though, your mouth fucking hurts.

“Oh man, you guys are gonna be so sorry. Do you have _any_ idea who my father is? I saw him beat a guy to death with a tablespoon and use it to remove his eyes one time. And _he_ just owed him money. You guys are going to get _skinned alive,_ ” You hiss, sounding braver than you feel. “And he’s gonna let me watch.”

You’re trying really hard to keep the tremor out of your voice. Your name is Aisling Arden-O'Nell. Your dad is Morris “Mickey” O’Nell for Christ’s sake! A - a perfectly legitimate businessman who is _viciously rumoured_ to be the leading Irish mob-lord of London, with serious trafficking connections in Liberty City. You don’t actually know what he traffics, just that it’s expensive and unbelievably illegal. He once _allegedly_ bled a man to death over several days over a bad bet.

He’s going to _annihilate_ these chicken fucks.

Your threats, unfortunately, do not seem to be having the desired effect. You even think you hear the Puerto-rican one _snort._ Not good.

“We know who your daddy is, Sweetie.” A new voice. You whip your head towards the door. None of the others move, staring at you fixedly and grinning. “That’s kinda the point.”

Leaning against the doorway is a tired looking man in a bloody suit, pushed up at the elbows. His burly, heavily tattooed arms are folded across his chest and he’s sporting perhaps the most impressive looking moustache you’ve ever seen. Any of his fingers which aren’t swathed in tattoos are sporting considerably huge gold rings.

Your heart sinks. Of course. This is _about_ Father; this is a ransom. You really should have realised it sooner - you know, through the drugs and alcohol and the growing lump on the back of your head. Well, at least they aren’t going to assault you. Probably.

He pushes himself off of the frame and makes his way towards you, staring for a second before settling into an old armchair slightly out of her left field of vision. You hear the flick of a lighter, and a long sigh, before the room is filled with the acrid stench of a cuban cigar.

“Vagabond, how late am I?”

“Not that late, Boss.” Vagabond - the Skullman - speaks. His eyes haven’t left your face yet, and his smile is full of teeth and sociopathic undertones. Of all the men in the room, he unnerves you the most.

“Alright, chaps?” Vav and Jack return, Vav in a new black polo shirt and smiling happily. “Boss, when’d you get here?”

“About five minutes ago. I see you didn’t fuck your job up monumentally, I have to give you credit for that. I don’t want to, but I have to.”

Vav beams at him and winks at you roguishly. Jack is the only one refusing to look at you directly, returning to watch the proceedings from the shadows.

“Ok,” you decide to speak, managing not to shake too badly. “Ok, this is about money. You guys want money right? My dad has money, you guys know that. Just, make the call. He’ll give you whatever you want.” Before hunting you down and pulling your organs out of your ears, you think to yourself. Maybe he’ll let you hold them down.

The boss speaks - although not to you. “Brownman, go get me a drink.”

The Puerto-Rican stands up suddenly, walking to the far side of the room. You can see very little of your surroundings (the only light in the room is centred above your chair, and manages to illuminate very little except, well, you.) He disappears into the shadows before returning shortly with a crystal glass of malt whiskey, handing it to where Boss must be behind her.

There’s a pause as he sips at it.

“Alright- Mogar would you turn her fucking chair around please?” Here, Curly kicks your chair so it has a better view of the man in the corner. He blows smoke out through his teeth.

“Thank you, Mogar. Alright Princess, this is how it's gonna work. _This,"_ he gestures around the room, “is your home now. You can't really see, but I promise it's very well furnished - all the latest fixtures. There is the kitchen.” Boss man points towards the direction Brownman went for the whiskey. He then points at a different corner. “There is your bed. Very cozy, only the finest for our guest. And over _there_ is the bathroom.” He flicks his wrist towards the opposite wall. “It's… fine. I told the boys to empty the beer bottles out of the bath tub, but do they ever listen to me?”

He rolls his eyes at you conspiratorially, as though you are an understanding nursery teacher and him a struggling single parent. “Actually, I had them remove anything you might use to stab, shoot or set fire to anything or anyone, including yourself. But, just to be safe, one of us is gonna come babysit you every day. Not me of course; I have way more important and exciting things to do, but the rest of these gentlemen - and lady - will be taking it in turns to watch your miserable ass for the foreseeable future, does that sound OK?”

He’s mocking you; not actually looking for an answer. You respond anyway.

“You guys _are_ holding me ransom, right?”

Boss man smiles at you, tapping his nose. “Ah, I'm afraid to be let in on the Big Kid Club plans, you have to be a member of the Big Kid Club. And I'm sorry to say that I'm fresh out of initiation robes.” He hands his whiskey glass to Brownman. “Take that with us, will you? I don’t want her to take up Creative Shiv Crafting the second we leave.” With that, he stands up and walks towards the door, patting your head affectionately before withdrawing it just as you try to bite him.

“Mogar can take the first shift - I feel like you two will get along. The rest of you, follow me out.”

With barely a snap of the fingers, every single person in the room stands up to leave, sauntering out of the door. Vav winks at you again, and then at Mogar, before shutting the door behind them, turning the rest of the lights on as he goes. You hear the click of the lock, and then silence.

Mogar is suddenly at your side, undoing your restraints. Before you have time to react, he retreats to the armchair, a pistol trained on your face. You stand up shakily, staring at him. All traces of anger and even mirth have disappeared, and he is watching with a blank expression at least ten times more unnerving. You know vaguely of several ways to disarm a man with a gun - it was Father's insistence - but you sense, even through your sluggish haze, that this is probably not the man to test any of them on.

Besides, right now you’re in no mood to do anything except vomit uncontrollably. You stumble towards where Boss man had promised the bathroom would be, fumbling for the door handle with sweaty fingers and only just making it in time to the toilet.

 

* * *

 

You awake to find yourself with your face pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. That’s fine. Not the first time. You push yourself to your feet, swaying, and open your eyes groggily.

This is not your bathroom. Ok, also not the first time-

The events of the previous night hit you with a velocity so strong you actually stagger. You've been kidnapped. You grab the sink for support.

_Fuck. Fuck, shit, goddamn, fuck twat cocksucking cunt motherfucking knob-jockey cumstain FUCK._

You kick the toilet, and immediately regret it, whimpering and clutching your foot. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and stare, horrified.

Your hair, your _just bleached,_  beautiful long hair is crusted with sick and sweat and is sticking up in a way which you normally have to backcomb it to achieve. Your lipstick has completely rubbed off, and combined with the tape sore from last night, has created a strange red patch around your normally voluptuous - and they ought to be because your dad had paid a shitload of money for them - lips. Your eyeliner has migrated all over her face, creating the likeness of a hungover racoon. Your tit had popped out of your - ruined - dress at some point during the night, but at least you must have had the presence of mind to take off your heels before succumbing to the void, which are kicked into the corner of the room. To top it off, the restraints have left some unsightly red marks all over your wrists and ankles - and they _itch._

You lean over the filthy sink to rinse the worst of the grime out of your hair and push your boob back into your dress. Moderately better. You crack open the door of the bathroom, peeking out cautiously.

Mogar is slumped in the armchair, pistol in his lap and the movement of his shoulders indicating heavy breathing. You draw back with a sharp intake of breath. Ok, so he’s asleep. This is an opportunity; do not panic and fuck it up. Weapon. You scan the bathroom for a makeshift weapon.

You wonder for a second about breaking the mirror and using one of the shards, before deeming it would make too much noise and probably wake him up. Finally, you settle on literally the only thing available - one of your heels. They aren’t much, but at least they’re heavy and might stun him briefly. You're fucking MacGyver right now. Slowly, you creep back towards the door. If you could just grab the gun, you might be able to threaten your way out of here…

You peek through to the other room again, managing to edge your body through the gap before realising something is wrong.

The armchair is empty.

_Where the_ -

You doesn’t even have time to ask yourself the question before it’s answered by a powerful arm coiling itself around your neck. You feel the pistol barrel press neatly between your ribs.

_Fuck._

“I really hope,” Mogar says, offhandedly, “that the reason you're holding your shoe in the air like that, is so you could come in and bitch at me that it’s broken. I don't give a shit, by the way.”

You drop the shoe and hold up your hands, relieved when his arm slips away from your throat and he steps back, making his way over to the armchair again and flopping into it. So much for that idea. creeps through the tiny barred windows at the very tops of the walls.

“I don’t know how far you think you'd have gotten. All the doors are locked and we're in the middle of nowhere.” Mogar scratches his head with the gun. “And I hate to break it to you, but if you'd decided to wait for the next guy to show up, he'd have just like, shot you in the foot or something.”

You swallow. “I thought the point of a ransom was not to damage the goods?”

He grins at you. “Well, not the important parts. A toe here, a finger there, what's the harm really? I'm missing four, myself.”

“Fingers or toes?” you ask weakly.

Mogar makes a noise only describable as a closed-mouth snigger, his cherubic features lighting up with an unfathomable glee - despite his massive black eye. He seems to be in a much cheerier mood than the previous night - and you're not sure whether you prefer it. You shiver. He raises a thick eyebrow at you.

“You know, if you hadn't been so rude last night and actually used the bed we got especially for you, you'd have been able to put on the pyjamas we set out, instead of that,” he gestures towards you, “mess.”

Rude cunt. You look over him anyway, to discover that there is in fact a set of flannel pyjamas laid neatly on the cotton blanket. Mogar wrinkles his nose.

“Please take a bath. You smell, like, really terrible.”

Well, now you just don't want to, on principle. But even you have to admit that the smell is starting to get to you. You suppose you could at least be kidnapped and clean. You sigh inwardly and turn around, closing the bathroom door behind you.

There is no lock. Add it to the list of things that are shitty and you hate.

You take your bath, attempting in vain to scrub off the clusterfuck of last night, and are horrified to learn that they've only provided you with shampoo and no conditioner - because what you definitely need right now is dry, frizzy hair. At least they’ve left you a toothbrush.

You finish your bath and step out, taking the time to brush your teeth before wrapping yourself in the towel and once again cracking the door open cautiously. Mogar is nowhere to be seen, but in front of the door is a neat pile of clothes, including jeans and a baggy white t shirt. You grab them and pull them on, not trying to be private about your distaste. At least they fit. Sort of. You go outside.

You’re surprised and uneasy to find that the room is empty. Surely, after all of that talk last night, they hadn’t just left you alone? You check the corners of the room, half expecting Mogar to leap out and punch you in the teeth. Nothing. Huh.

Is there any way to take advantage of this? He’s taken the gun, so no luck there. You walk over to the door. Couldn’t hurt to try, right?

A split second later, you hear voices behind it and the door opens forcefully onto your nose. You groan and clutch at it, hearing Mogar start to laugh.

“Jack, look at this shit. She was just gonna try the fucking door! Like ‘oh, I wonder if they’ve just like, _forgot_ to close it so I can escape!’ Fucking moron.”

You shoot him a filthy look through your watering eyes. This only makes him laugh harder.

“Oh man, I hope it swells so it matches Vav’s.”

Jack rolls her eyes at him. “For fuck’s sake Mogar, let up a little would you?”

Mogar smiles at her. “Jack, she was gonna bean me on the head with her shoe, remember?” When she doesn’t respond, he shrugs nonchalantly and sticks his hands into the pockets of his brown bomber jacket.

“Whatever. I’ll see you later.” With this, he turns to leave the room, stopping to stare at you for a second. “I can’t believe you puked on him. I’m going to give him so much shit for that.” Mogar shakes his head, still grinning to himself, and walks out of the door, closing it behind him.

There are several seconds of silence as Jack appraises you cooly, and you feels incredibly vulnerable.

“You need an ice pack.” she says suddenly. Her voice is much deeper than you expected. Jack makes her way over to the refrigerator - the only appliance in your so-called “kitchen.” Wordlessly, she throws a packet of frozen peas at you, who catches it and presses it against your nose gratefully. Jack gravitates towards the infamous armchair, sinking into it quietly.

“Why would you guys put peas in the freezer if you didn’t want me to be able to cook them?”

“Those peas have been around since 2003. They’re not for eating.” Jack tells you stonily.

You look around. So this is an old haunt of theirs. The walls are bare brick and radiate coldness, and the floor is solid grey concrete with the occasional worrying stain. The only furniture in the room is the fridge, the bed, a wobbly, round table and four metal chairs, a few cupboards and, of course, the armchair. The room has a distinct aura of bleakness and deprivation. God _damn_ your nose hurts.

“So, is there _anything_ to eat?” you venture eventually. Your stomach is so empty you almost think you might hurl again. Jack raises an eyebrow before pulling out of her backpack a small tupperware container and a plastic spoon. You catch them, tearing off the lid and diving in. Pasta. It’s cold, but it might as well be caviar for all you give a fuck.

Jack is still watching you - evidently no one else has anything else to do in this bloody building. Apparently you’re not talking anymore, either. You set the container aside, wiping your mouth. The hours pass by, you presume - you don’t know for sure, there’s no clock and you have to rely on the lighting from the windows - and you wonder miserably if they removed _all_ possible ways for you to kill yourself. Apparently, they didn’t count dying of fucking boredom.

You try several times to start another conversation, before giving up.

This is not the way things were supposed to go for you. You knew for a fact that both _StarsTalk_ and _HOT MESS_ magazines had been at the club the other night - which is why you’d very deliberately been making out with your best friend and reality TV star, Kitty Garcia, all night. You two were going to tease the rumours for a few weeks before leaking your sex tape to the press and collecting the revenue, and walking around with sunglasses and distressed expressions for the next few months. You’d even gotten a porn star to agree to record a youtube video proclaiming your innocence! This “Vav” shitlord has fucked everything up for you colossally. You neglect to remember the fact that technically _you’d_ approached _him_. This is definitely all of his fault.

You look over at Jack again, who is inspecting the pistol and frowning. Who the fuck are these people? Ok, It’s not like gang activity had been quiet since your dad moved your family to Los Santos - there was bound to be some serious upset over territory - but for the most part it had been handled with dignity. By shooting each other in the face publicly and hanging the corpses up as silent warnings. No one had tried to _kidnap_ anyone. Besides, you’ve never heard of these fuckers until now, by description or otherwise; Unless they’re operating under a larger gang or something.

But that doesn’t sound right. You've known men like Boss. They’re hungry, and patient, but never content being number two. Not for long anyway.

Suddenly, Jack’s phone rings, causing you to jump. Jack answers it, speaking quietly.

“What do you mean you...? Ok, I get that, but how did you end up on the _roof?”_ There is panicked muttering from the other end of the line. “Fine, ok, but what do you want me to do about her?”

What fresh hell?

Jack pauses, listening. “How long till he gets here? Fine, OK. Stay there, not that you have any choice. I’ll come get you.” Jack ends the call, looking at you.

“Ok, next shift starts sooner than expected. One of the others is going to come watch you.”

“How long?” you ask.

“About half an hour.”

Good. Thirty more minutes to kill in absolute silence. Awesome.

You twiddle your thumbs uselessly. This chick’s tactic seemed to be to make you feel as tiny as humanly possible through nothing but her icy stare.

Not nearly soon enough, there is a jaunty knock at the door, and Jack stands up to answer. In saunters Brownman, who nods at her as she makes her way out and swings his own backpack at the armchair before falling on it horizontally.

“‘Sup.”

“Uhm, not much.”

“Cool.” He dives into his backpack and pulls out a Nintendo DS, immediately beginning to play. So that’s how it’s going to be.

Several minutes pass. You scratch your arm awkwardly.

“Can I watch?” you ask suddenly. Brownman looks up at you, frowning in bemusement.

“I guess?”

You wander over to the armchair, squatting down so you’re looking over his shoulder. He’s playing one of those stupid fucking weeb games your brother plays - where you have to wander around throwing balls at freaky-looking animals. Still, it’s better than absolutely nothing, and you settle down that way for the next couple of hours.

You actually fall asleep at one point, but are woken by the patter of rain outside. It’s dark, and you must have slid down and landed awkwardly on your arm at some point because you’re now on the floor and your shoulder is aching. You prop yourself up unsteadily.

Brownman has long since put away his DS and is now flicking through his phone idly. You groan loudly and flop backwards.

“God I’m _bored._ Don’t you have anything to do around here?”

“You mean besides sit on my ass and make sure you don’t blow yourself up? Not much.” He sounds almost as bored, looking up from his phone and stretching. He starts scanning the room. “Actually, we might have something.”

He stands up suddenly, shuffling over to one of the cupboards and opening them. A cloud of dust is kicked up and he waves it away, reaching inside and bringing out an unmarked box.

“Here we go, one of the only things you can’t kill yourself with. Cards.”

You, who have been watching all of this incredulously, scoff. “What, we’re going to play bloody solitaire? Go fish? Crazy pineapple poker??”

He walks over to the table, dropping the box on it’s surface. “Fuck no. Uno.”

“Oh my God.” You look up to the heavens. Well, why the fuck not. You take a seat at the table opposite him, and he sets up the game, dealing out the cards face-down.

* * *

 “You fucking cunt.”

“I’m sorry? I can’t hear you over the sound of ninety delicious points.”

Brownman slams his cards on the table. “I don’t know why I suggested this. This is really not my game.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask dubiously. “What is?”

“Pretty much anything other than this.” He props his head up on his fist. You’ve played three straight matches, and significantly more rounds, and two out of three times you’ve thoroughly kicked his ass. When you have three younger siblings, you quickly learn how to cheat at this sort of thing - although you're not about to tell him this. They had kidnapped you; the least you could do was make them feel inferior about their Uno skills.

“You’re a videogame dude, aren’t you?”

His eyes flash. “Only a lot.”

“It’s a shame there’s no Xbox here. We could have played a round of Mortal Kombat or something.” He would have crushed you, you could sense that; but you might have held your own, at least for a little while. And then at least there’d be something else to do. “Or maybe Tony Hawk. I haven’t played that in years.”

You don’t have an Xbox, or any kind of console at your own apartment. You haven’t needed to - your nights are filled with booze and aggressively repetitive music for the most part, usually accompanied by copious amounts of cocaine.

The last time you’d played anything it was a round of Halo to win an argument with your brother over who had to take your mother’s pomeranian, Muffin, for a walk. He’d lost.

God, you miss your cats. They’ve probably shit all over your apartment by now and torn everything to pieces. Poor babies. You wonder if the maid found the spare key. She probably didn’t see anything out of the ordinary - it wasn’t unlike you to not be home the next day, or even the next couple of days. You also wonder if the maid had decided to dip into your ecstasy stash again. Bitch.

“No can do, Mr Boss man says no wires.” Brownman snaps you out of your thoughts. He’s started to pack the Uno set away. You yawn. Your nap earlier had not been particularly satisfying. He sees you eyeing the bed.

“Go ahead. I’ll just, you know, be here. Hanging.” He puts the box back in the cupboard, turning and stretching.

He’s left the gun unattended.

You lunge forward, barely scraping it with your fingers before -

_Click._

You look up, seeing him squinting at you over a semiautomatic pistol he has clearly pulled out of his fucking ass. You freeze.

“Try me. I fucking dare you.”

You pull your hand back - very slowly - and raise them into the air.

“Hey, hey we’re cool! You can’t blame a girl for trying, right?”

He doesn’t seem amused. Apparently you can. All traces of friendly camaraderie have completely dissipated, and he doesn’t relax his firearm.

“Ok then. Ok.” You stand up shakily, taking your time. You go over to the bed to grab the pyjamas and shuffle towards the bathroom backwards, not breaking eye contact.

When you leave the bathroom, fully pyjama’d, Brownman has returned to the armchair and to his phone. He doesn’t look up.

Sure. Fine. You make your way over to the bed, sitting down on the mattress. It’s foam, and resting on a “bed frame” crudely crafted out of a couple of pieces of wood. Clearly this has been designed by a man who’s spent time in prison. And probably broken out.

You lie down, pulling over yourself the thin cotton sheet. Luckily, this is San Andreas, and it doesn’t take a long time for you to warm up. You roll over a couple of times, trying to get comfy.

None of this matters. Pretty soon, your dad would pay the ransom; and then chase down these asslickers and skullfuck them to death - probably within the next twenty-four hours - and everything would be totally fine and back to normal.

Yep, pretty soon, you'd be back in your own bed with your own silk sheets and your own cats sitting on your face in the middle of the night. Home sweet home.

You're pretty sure, anyway. You hope.

You turn over, glaring at the back of Brownman’s head. Apparently you're sleeping with the lights on tonight.


End file.
